Fire and Rain
by stress
Summary: Escaping from Harper's Island with their lives wasn't surviving. Returning to the real world after the murders ended... that was surviving. Jimmy/Abby. Set post-series, following the events of "Sigh". WIP.
1. that sort of love

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. _

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**Fire and Rain**

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**i. that sort of love;**

The first things Abby Mills and Jimmy Mance saw as the Coast Guard's rescue boat carrying them across the waves approached the mainland were great big flashes of light. They were nearly blinded, and took solace in facing each other rather than facing what lay before them.

It wasn't until they were pulling up close to the shore, just off the edge of the docks that made up the Seattle Harbor, that they realized they were being greeted by flashbulbs; the holler of the media and the yells from the bystanders gathered around were only beaten by the authoritative cries of the Seattle Police Department, warning them all to keep back. Suddenly, and most unexpected on both their parts, it was this… this _circus_ that alerted them to the fact that they had re-entered the real world at last.

Harper's Island, with all its peace and its quiet and its past (and all too recent) bloodshed, seemed more than just thirty-seven miles off the coast—it was a world apart.

Tucking his head into his chest, staring down silently into Abby's blanket-covered lap, Jimmy tried to shy away from all of the attention. He never thought such a crowd would have come together to meet them, to see the last two survivors, and he felt like an idiot for neither expecting this sort of arrival, or being able to shield Abby from their stares. It was a mistake he immediately regretted; he'd given the nosy mainlanders too much credit. Anything tragic and morbid was usually lapped up in the news and, even after seven years, many longtime residents of Seattle remembered the horrific tale of a serial killer gone savage on the normally idyllic—if sometimes downright boring—island.

Time seemed to stand still. Jimmy felt like he could hear each individual scream, and blink at every flash that stung the corner of his eyes. For the first time since the nightmare on the island had ended, he swallowed as the nagging fear began to well up inside of him again. This wasn't what he wanted; all he wanted was to be with Abby forever. Even the waves seemed to slow under the weight of his own hesitance, keeping the boat as far off the coast as he could want.

He didn't want to go any further. Suddenly, docking at the harbor was the last thing he wanted to do. He didn't want to have to relive the horror, or put Abby through the pain and the grief of remembering—as if she could ever forget—all that had happened to them. He wanted it all to be over… but it wasn't.

Not yet, at least.

Jimmy sighed.

He wondered how long before the name of John Wakefield would be thrown around—as if the reporters had read his mind, someone hollered out a question about the murderer—and, though his every muscle ached and he felt too stiff in the motion, a deep scowl etched itself on his cut and bloodied face.

But it was the look that flashed across Abby's colorless expression that made him even angrier. Like him, she'd kept quiet on the boat ride over, understandably lost in her thoughts, and though she had pointedly looked down at the bottom of the small boat when the cameras began to flash in their direction, it was impossible for either of them to pretend that they weren't there.

She didn't ignore the crowd for long, though; it was the single, callous mention of John Wakefield that caught her attention. Her head jerked up, her mouth went slack so that it was hanging partly open in surprise, and she actually—his brave, courageous Abby—flinched when the murderer's name was tossed out at them like a weapon.

Under the weight of the heavy blankets the Coast Guard had draped over their shoulders, she started to tremble slightly; a quick glance showed that she was frowning now, her dark eyes narrowed on something that he was pretty sure he couldn't see. It was early afternoon, the breeze off the ocean was comfortable, but Jimmy knew that being cold had nothing to do with the way she was shaking.

Slipping his wrist assuredly under her blanket, he sought out her hand with his own. Jimmy leaned into her as he intertwined their fingers, wordlessly trying to protect her from anyone and everyone. A nagging feeling of guilt lurked in the back of his mind, worrying him that he might be too late, but he had to try. He would never, he promised himself just then, allow Abby to be so close to death as she was only a few hours ago—a few hours, maybe, but it seemed like a lifetime ago.

Though he still felt her minute tremors, and she had stiffened against the touch of his shoulder, she did give his hand a tight squeeze in return. The gesture banished his guilt; only a firm resolve to take care of Abby, to shower her with a love he'd worked hard to deny until he saw her again, remained.

Jimmy could honestly say that he loved her more than his own life. Somewhere, deep down, he'd always known that—but it took diving off a cliff, tackling the man that was threatening her, and watching Abby save them both in the end to make him understand the depths of his devotion. What did it matter to him as long as she was okay? He'd been prepared to sign a false confession so that she wouldn't be hurt, and he wouldn't stop at that.

Yes, it was that sort of love.

And, remarkably, it had only been a handful of days since she came back to him, since she returned to Harper's Island after an absence of seven years, but it felt like no time had passed at all. For all he knew, he could be eighteen again, sitting in the bed of his truck with Abby. She would be lying right beside him, smelling of the ocean and sunshine and long summer nights, her hand holding tight to his just like this—

—until more screams, more hollers, more flashes and a sharp jolt as the boat regrettably stopped reminded Jimmy exactly where they were. 

_Why_ they were…

The police were waiting for them at the harbor. That, at least, wasn't exactly a surprise. The man from the Coast Guard who answered their distress call—after finally being convinced that, yes, there were still survivors of John Wakefield's second rampage on the island and that, no, this wasn't someone's sick idea of a joke—assured them that a rescue boat would be sent for them immediately to return them to Seattle. The police would then pick them up at the harbor. They were very interested in learning how Jimmy and Abby survived, and how they managed to avoid being found when the police searched the entire island the initial time they were called there.

They weren't the only ones.

He wasn't quite sure what they were going to tell the police. Just the sight of their uniforms, of the flashing red and blue siren lights as they mingled with the continual bright white camera flashes, made his stomach drop down to his feet. It was an unwelcome reminder of a darker period in Jimmy's life—when Abby wasn't sitting beside him, and her absence made him reckless. There was no doubt that he was innocent, but he had never forgotten being accused of murder by the Seattle PD.

Having now seen murder firsthand—the act itself, and the repercussions—he knew he couldn't do it. It just wasn't him and, while the good officers eventually agreed, the experience left him no fan of the mainland police. To hear that they would be waiting for him explicitly had given Jimmy second thoughts about leaving the island… but those second thoughts lasted for about, well, a second. He'd seen Abby, he'd watched the resolute way she waited for rescue, and he knew he would follow her to the ends of the earth if he had to.

Besides, he'd barely survived the blast at the marina that nearly cost him his life. He didn't know how exactly he survived, or why really, but he was grateful for it. However, the proximity of the blast meant that he was unconscious for most of Wakefield's carnage. He came to just in time to discover that his best friend had fallen victim to Wakefield's knife before an urge to protect and a desire for revenge, coupled with an instinct to survive, led him to join the others in their final stand.

Jimmy actually fought the bastard hand to hand inside the church in order to give Abby the chance to escape and fire the flare. That was all he remembered until he woke up, bound and gagged, the prisoner of Henry Dunn.

But Henry was dead now, too. It was only that morning—though it seemed like so much longer—that Abby, to save Jimmy's life, had ran a boarding knife right through her best friend.

After the tears had dried and the body was buried, she turned every ounce of her focus and determination to getting off the island at last; it seemed to physically pain her every minute they were still stranded on the eerily vacant piece of land. She was the one who marched purposefully into the boathouse and radioed the Coast Guard, and she was the one who helped him limp towards the marina.

Once they were rescued, once they were safely on the boat with Harper's Island quickly disappearing behind them, Abby seemed to just… shut down. She didn't say another word, and though she kissed him at first with an urgency he found both disconcerting and titillating, he couldn't help but feel that she wasn't entirely there. That she had left a part of her—and an important part, too—back on the island.

Jimmy, trying his best not to pressure her, and just relishing the fact that they were together _and_ alive, supported her in her chosen silence. But the silence, he was beginning to understand, couldn't last forever—the cries and the questions and the calls from the crowd were already so deafening—and he knew he couldn't keep his own questions back forever, either.

He needed to know what happened while he was out, and while he and Abby were kept separated by Henry. He needed her to tell him—he needed to understand what made Henry do it.

It was obvious that he didn't know anywhere near enough of what happened over the last few days—just the grisly aftermath, the body count, and the unfortunate identity of Wakefield's accomplice. A lot of it was a blur, brought on by fear, shock, injury and exhaustion; or even lies told to him by a sociopath he once thought he trusted. The only person he knew he _could_ trust was being unnaturally quiet and pensive, keeping to herself, but Jimmy didn't push her.

He would wait until she was ready. Until the end of time, if he had to. No matter what, he would be there for Abby.

If, of course, she let him.

The weight in the boat shifted then, drawing Jimmy from his thoughts. Setting the memories and the worries and the questions aside, he gave Abby's hand another reassuring squeeze. He glanced up, and looked straight out ahead at what awaited the two of them.

The crowd, he noticed, had parted to let a trio of uniformed officers through the growing throng. Two paramedics accounted for the slight tilt of the still boat over the calm waters; the two Coast Guard rescuers were disembarking, allowing the paramedics to board past them, their professional sights set on the two survivors.

And, suddenly, time was righted—and not just righted. It sped up so much so that the two paramedics—a middle-aged, heavyset man and a younger, mousy woman—had drawn up to the back of the speedboat before Jimmy could even blink; Abby was being helped up the woman, and the man was offering a supportive arm to him before he could insist that he was perfectly capable of walking off the boat himself. It was a lie, but it didn't matter. When Jimmy was too slow to reach for his arm, the hefty man placed it assuredly around Jimmy's shoulders and followed their prospective partners towards the dock.

Two of the three police officers remained at the front of the crowd, trying to maintain control and keep the press and the well-wishers away from the battered and beleaguered pair. The third, a tawny-haired and freckle-faced rookie, let the paramedics lead Jimmy and Abby by before following close behind.

An ambulance was backed up to the docks, the back door wide open. It was ready to receive them. Jimmy saw the empty stretchers laid out inside and was grateful that he didn't have to use it. As sore as he was, and as much he ached, he could walk—and, as the paramedics started with the essential basics, such as taking their temperatures, their blood pressure and checking for anything obviously broken, Jimmy had the sudden urge to keep on walking.

He was exhausted. He hadn't had a good night's rest in days. The blast had nearly killed him, there were numerous injuries—bruises, burns and cuts—all over his body, and he'd seen things he wished he could unsee. He had absolutely no desire to be looked at by anyone; he came from the school that fresh air, a cold beer and a couple days sleep would have him sorted out in no time.

Maybe it was a guy thing, but Jimmy hated doctors almost as much as the police.

It was only when Abby looked over her shoulder at him, searching for him and making sure that he was still there, that Jimmy allowed himself to be shuffled into the back of the ambulance.

The paramedic that helped Jimmy went to the front of the ambulance and got into the driver seat; his partner climbed in with Abby and Jimmy, followed by the third police officer. And then the door was pulled shut behind them. He sighed in relief. It made him feel much better now that the hundreds of eyes couldn't find him anymore.

As the ambulance siren flicked on, the alarms blaring and the back of the vehicle rocking enough to jolt each and every one of Jimmy's bruises, the silence inside was finally broken when the cop cleared his throat and recited like a robot, "This ambulance has been directed to bring you to the Northwest Hospital & Medical Center to be checked out first. After that, I've been instructed to accompany you back to the station where you will get the chance to talk with the Federal Bureau of Investigations."

"The FBI?" Abby murmured in interest, her voice quiet and thin. It was the first thing Jimmy heard her say since the boat ride started and, if it wasn't for the fact that she sounded so detached, he might have thought that her escape from Harper's Island had been the best thing for her.

"Yes," the officer answered. He sounded puzzled. "No one informed you that your case has been turned over to the FBI?"

There was a pause, and then she shook her head slowly. "No."

No… No, Jimmy thought as Abby's frown made his protective nature kick back into gear. Who would tell the survivors anything?

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, here I go. I wasn't quite sure if I wanted to undertake a longer than a one shot fic or a few short ficlets, but I thought: why not? I have quite a few ideas for this, and while I know that the first chapter doesn't really say much, I needed it to set up what I'm going to follow this with. I promise it'll have much more action, answers and interaction starting with the next chapter -- until then, though, I hope you enjoyed this and it'll be great if you want to stick around for the ride :)_


	2. the best type of medicine

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. _

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**Fire and Rain**

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**ii. the best type of medicine;**

Their experience in the hospital could have been worse. Could have been, but Jimmy wasn't quite sure how.

It all started in the back of the ambulance. During the ride over to the hospital, the mousy woman paramedic—with a squeaky voice that matched Jimmy's opinion of her, she introduced herself as Judy—had discovered that he had a fever; a quick pinch of his skin revealed that he was dehydrated. Since he couldn't remember when the last time he'd had anything to eat or drink was, he couldn't say that he was surprised by her diagnosis, just aggravated that he was in even worse shape than he initially thought he was.

Abby's temperature, on the other hand, was slightly elevated but still considered to be in the normal range. When asked by Judy, she only complained of a mild headache before decidedly turning the paramedic's probing questions back towards Jimmy's state. She seemed overly concerned with his welfare which only made him worry even more about what was really going on behind her sad eyes and her even sadder smile.

The cop kept to himself, watching the scene curiously. It was only too obvious that he had plenty of questions of his own that he wanted to ask but, luckily for the survivors, he remained professional. Jimmy would've bet his boat—if it hadn't already been blown to smithereens—and maybe half his fishing gear that this Officer McClellan had been ordered not to badger the witnesses; at the same time, though, he was making sure that there was no funny business going on. He tensed every time Abby spoke or when Jimmy tried in vain to get her attention. His eyes danced anxiously from one to the other, recording everything like he was preparing a report for his supervisor.

He thought the officer's behavior was strange but managed to forget how weird it was when Abby reached her hand out and carefully brushed a lock of dark hair away from his eyes. McClellan noted their shy sort of intimacy with a raised eyebrow. Jimmy just leaned into her hand, enjoying the soft, hesitant touch of her fingertips.

It wasn't until the ambulance driver made a wide turn that brought them right to the front of the Northwest Hospital and Medical Center that he finally realized just how guilty he and Abby looked.

The way he saw it, nobody knew that Henry Dunn was the second killer. Shea and Madison Allen had escaped before Henry's betrayal had been revealed, and they'd left with the suspicion that _he_ was the one to blame for helping Wakefield. The Coast Guard had been under the impression that there hadn't been any survivors left—he was hazy on this point, but it seemed that there was enough proof for the police to call off the search almost immediately—and, suddenly, there they were.

Jimmy wasn't looking forward to trying to explain it. He wasn't even sure he was going to be able to. But there was no way that he was going to let Abby take the fall for anything that happened. At even the basest level, their actions were purely in self defense and Henry… well, he deserved what he got as far as Jimmy was concerned. Still, if it came down to it, he would swear that he was the one who killed him.

He would not let her pay for anything that bastard had done to her—or made her do.

There was no way he could talk to her right now, no way to tell her not to worry with Judy and McClellan keeping them company in the cramped quarters of the back of the ambulance. He tried to reassure her wordlessly, speaking with only the sincerity of his gaze. She nodded, and he could only pray she understood.

And then the ambulance stopped rattling, the back doors swung open easily and that was the end of any covert conversations. He didn't move away from her, though he did lean back so that Judy could exit the vehicle. She was calling out a preliminary report to her colleague as McClellan slipped past her and took his post just outside of the ambulance. A lot of it was medical mumbo jumbo that Jimmy had only ever heard on episodes of "ER", but he understood the gist of what Judy was saying when a hospital orderly appeared out of nowhere, pushing an empty wheelchair in front of him.

Jimmy had a funny feeling that the chair wasn't for Abby.

Quickly, he tried to think of a nice way to refuse the wheelchair but came up with nothing. He was going to make a joke about the situation—anything to see her smile again—but instinctually knew that they were still awhile away from laughing again. In the end, he sighed and let both Abby and the orderly ease him into the leather seat.

As embarrassing as it was to be pushed into the hospital foyer when, only that morning, he'd escaped a murderous lunatic and tackled him off the edge of a cliff, it made Jimmy feel much better that she never left his side. Judy and the other paramedic had disappeared, and McClellan was walking purposely behind the orderly, but Abby kept in step with the squeaky wheels of the chair.

The waiting room for the Emergency Room was sparsely filled. There were a handful of people waiting together to go in, and a few others waiting for patients already being seen. All of them had their eyes glued to the small television that was mounted in one corner of the room; none of them even glanced up when Jimmy and Abby were led right in without stopping to sign in with a nurse first.

After so many strange days, the sound of the television seemed foreign to him. Jimmy found himself listening to what the nasally-voiced reporter for the news was saying without even meaning to tune in.

"—that's right, Ted. Only a little while ago we received confirmation down at Seattle Harbor that the second pair of survivors from the Harper's Island tragedy has arrived in the city. James Mance and Abigail Mills, both aged twenty-five, were reportedly picked up on the currently deserted island earlier this afternoon after miraculously sending out a distress call. Their survival now drops the reported death toll from thirty-one to twenty-nine. We'll have more on this breaking news as it unfolds—"

The news report segued to a commercial break just as the wheelchair was pushed through another door, separating the busy station of the Emergency Room from the dull waiting area. His ears buzzing with what the reporter said, Jimmy was grateful for the first time in his life to be surrounded by doctors, nurses and sterile equipment.

The Harper's Island tragedy. They'd even given it a _name_.

"Jimmy?"

He turned his head to look up at Abby. There was a strange expression on her face, and he knew that he wasn't the only one to have heard the television.

"Yeah?" he answered, trying to sound calm and assured. It didn't work. When his voice cracked and he heard how scratchy it came out, Jimmy cringed inwardly. Not only did he feel like he was dying, he sounded like it, too.

But, if Abby was alarmed at how unlike himself he sounded, she didn't show it; she was too busy glancing at something—or someone, he thought—over her shoulder. McClellan, undeterred and determined to do his duty, was only a few steps behind, still effortlessly dogging the couple.

She shook her head slowly. "Never mind."

And Jimmy knew then that he wasn't the only one to realize just how back it looked for the two of them.

That realization weighed on his mind as the orderly wheeled him toward an empty corner of the oversized Emergency Room. His chair was parked inside a tiny square, complete with a narrow cot, an examination table and a few other pieces of equipment he recognized but couldn't name. Before he knew it, he was gingerly helped onto the cot, the curtains were drawn around him, and then the orderly was gone.

He was rubbing his head, marveling at the hospital worker's speed, when he discovered that Abby was gone, too. Whisked away to her own bed, he figured, surrounded by her own curtains… wherever she'd gone, she was away from him—and he didn't like it. It made him antsy and, if wasn't for the shadow that came from outside his cubicle which told him that McClellan had chosen to stay and guard him, he might've gone looking for her. He still wanted to but, keeping his head straight, he stayed put.

McClellan wasn't just there to make sure they got safely from the harbor to the hospital, and from the hospital to the police station—he was there to make sure they got there in _any_ piece. And not over Abby specifically. As if he was finally beginning to see clearly, Jimmy knew that the cop's assignment was to watch over _him_.

He wasn't just a survivor. He was a _suspect_.

It was another thing he should have expected. Shea Allen had no idea what happed on the island after she escaped it. There was the mug shot to consider, and Jimmy's record in Seattle was certainly a mark against him. But, still, after nearly being shot—he shuddered to think what Henry might have done to him if Abby hadn't jumped in the way—and blown up, fighting a killer and his equally crazy accomplice, and then getting away… it made him feel as if he had been punched in the gut to think that, after all that, anyone might believe he had something to do with it.

Jimmy was so upset, so _angry_, to have finally figured out the cop's strange behavior that he very nearly forgot how nervous it made him to have Abby apart from him. Almost as nervous, he told himself when a doctor entered then secured the curtains behind him, as being in the hospital made him.

This was not the way he'd hoped to spend his first night off the island with Abby.

The only way for him to get past all the poking and the prodding was for Jimmy to just grit his teeth and hope that the examination would be over soon. The doctor reaffirmed that he was indeed dehydrated and quickly hooked him up to an IV. After that, he focused on the drip-drip-dripping of the fluid to take his mind off of everything.

A handful of doctors followed the first one, some taking notes, others offering him salve for his burns and maybe something for the pain, and there were even a few that he suspected were just coming in to get a look at one of the survivors. None of them really talked to him—he had the feeling that McClellan might have warned them not to—but he didn't mind that part so much. He kind of liked the quiet. It let him think, and it was nice to be able to do that without worrying that someone might come up behind you with a knife if you weren't paying enough attention.

The continual dripping, the constant tapping from McClellan's heavy boot, the beeping from the medical equipment, it was all strangely comforting—

—but not so comforting as when the curtains pulled back and away for the countless time over the last few hours and it was Abby's face that was poking through.

Suddenly, he was reminded of the other night when, out of something in his wildest dreams, he found Abby on his front porch. Then, like now, she had needed him. He'd let her into his house that night—he welcomed her back into his heart—and he hoped, as she settled in on his couch and he regretfully went back to his bedroom, that she would never leave.

He didn't know what he would do if she ever left him again.

There must have been something in the intensity of his expression because Abby immediately turned hesitant. She lingered just out outside of the curtain. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to disturb you," she began apologetically. "I'll just wait—"

"You didn't disturb me," Jimmy cut in hurriedly. He didn't want her to go—and, just in case, he definitely didn't want her anywhere near that cop.

"Can I come in?"

"I'd be honored if you did."

For just a moment, he could've sworn that there was an amused twinkle in her eyes. But, as if they were a candle caught in the wind, the light was immediately snuffed out. She dropped her chin down to her chest and, shuffling her feet, she slipped inside the small area.

Abby didn't notice at first that there was nowhere to sit except for the bed. When she did, she crossed her arms over her chest but remained on her feet, right next to the IV. Standing straight up, she kept her eyes on the marbled tile. She pointedly refused to meet his gaze.

It couldn't possibly be a comfortable position. Jimmy scooted over, making room for her. "Sit down on the bed with me."

She spared him a quick glance. "I don't think I should." And then, before she could hide it, she flinched just enough for it to be noticeable.

Her flinch hurt him more than the raw marks Henry's handcuffs left behind on Jimmy's wrists. He didn't let her see it, though; instead, he decided to make a joke out of it. "C'mon, Abb. You know I don't have cooties anymore, and I promise I'm not as breakable as I seem right now."

Abby didn't laugh at his attempt to lighten the mood, but she did sit down carefully on the edge of the bed, resting sideways so that her profile was presented to him. As if to reassure himself that she really was there, Jimmy reached out his hand and let it settle comfortably on her thigh.

Again, she flinched, but this time it was at the needle that was stuck in the crook of his right arm. With a feather light touch, she ran two of her fingers over the point where the needle was placed, gently caressing the skin as another bruise began to blossom. It unnerved her to see the IV stuck in him; it was almost as if she was finally beginning to understand that this was all real.

That it wasn't all just some sick sort of nightmare.

"Did it hurt?" she asked, her voice so low that it was nearly a whisper.

Trying to play it off as nothing, Jimmy shrugged—and then grimaced a little when the motion pulled on the skin, causing the medical tape to tug painfully. "I've had worse," he told her, before immediately regretting it.

He'd been thinking about that one time when he and Shane had been goofing around and he accidentally got a fishhook caught in his palm. Abby, from the way that she tensed and drew her hand back, and the guilty, haunted look that passed over her face, obviously had something else in mind.

Jimmy thought that might have been the worst possible thing he could've said to her. When Abby swallowed before slowly reaching her hand back out, letting trembling fingers touch one of the burns on his cheek, he was sure of it.

If it wasn't for the horrified way he was sure she would react, Jimmy would've slapped himself in the head for being so stupid. He'd promised that he would give her space, give her time, and already one careless remark had wounded her. He would have to be more careful. If he wasn't, he knew he could end up hurting her even more than Wakefield and Henry could've done.

Hurriedly changing the subject, Jimmy asked, "What about you? What did they say?"

Abby was quiet as she thought about how to answer his question. It was in that silence that he noticed that he couldn't hear the tapping of the cop's boot anymore. No doubt he was listening to everything they were saying. But then the weight on the bed move, Abby turned to stare at the IV, and Jimmy forgot all about McClellan.

"The doctors… they said I'll be fine. I'm… I'm okay." She nodded to herself before turning back to look at him. "I'm okay, Jimmy."

He could tell she was trying to convince him that she was telling the truth—convince him, or maybe convince herself. She sounded almost defiant, though he didn't miss the way she first answered his question. _I'll be fine_… He believed that. She _would_ be fine if he had anything to say about it—but she sure wasn't okay yet.

That was all right. He didn't think he was, either.

So he didn't argue with her. With a smile that he knew was his most charming, and a tilt of his head he knew she couldn't resist, he decided that, for now, laughter would be the best medicine for the two of them. If she couldn't at least giggle at the way his cut and swollen features were trying their best to be attractive, than she was even worse off than he imagined.

It would be awhile, and it would be tough, but Jimmy would bring Abby's beautiful smile back.

He did succeed in getting a chuckle mixed with a snort mixed with a suspicious sounding sigh when he blinked innocently up at her. "Okay, Abby. Give it to me straight: what did the doctors say? Will we make it?"

There it was. It only lasted for a moment, and it was a little shaky, but Abby was smiling. She paused, pretending to mull things over, before, "I think we will."

And, for the moment at least, with the two of them sitting together in the ER of the Northwest Medical Center, Jimmy felt like he could believe her about that, too.

* * *

Author's Note: _Here we go :) I'm actually quite pleased with how this chapter turned out -- I figure the next few days of Abby and Jimmy's experience following the tragedy would be quite interesting, so I might as well do my best to portray the way it would've happened in my imagination. First up was the hospital scene. Meeting up with the FBI is next... and we begin to see just how our characters will begin to react. The shock will begin to fade, and I think it'll be fun to explore the emotions that follow._

_I do want to say thank you to everyone who stopped by and gave the first chapter a chance. I hope you guys like this one, too :) And a special thanks to Kathryn0505, .mouth, Streetwise and Katie 452 for take their time to leave some feedback. I love hearing what the readers think, and I appreciate your comments more than you would ever know. Thank you!_


	3. and then there were two more

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. _

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**Fire and Rain**

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**iii. and then there were two more;**

The police station was no more crowded than the hospital had been but, after so many hours in the peaceful solitude of a cordoned-off cubicle, it seemed much louder. More hectic, even, and less organized. It felt familiar to them both, and not in a way that made it any easier for them to continue walking inside.

Night had fallen since their arrival at the Northwest Medical Center earlier that afternoon and, as Jimmy and Abby each dragged their feet as they entered the police station, it was only too obvious how absolutely tired they were feeling; it was only surpassed by the upsetting, but nevertheless accepted realization of how much longer they would have to stay awake before they would finally get the chance to rest.

Jimmy couldn't wait for the opportunity to lie down next to Abby and, for even a few hours if he could, just be entirely oblivious to everything and everyone else surrounding them. He was so exhausted that he doubted the nightmares would be able to find him yet. He wanted to take advantage of such bliss for as long as he could—there was no way that, when the shock finally began to dissipate in favor of stark understanding, he would be so lucky.

It struck him at that moment that what he should've done was just close his eyes and hope to forget everything back when he was lying on the thin cot in the Emergency Room. He hadn't, though, not even when Abby reluctantly gave in to his murmured suggestions and allowed her eyes to shutter. The thought that he should too never really crossed his mind. Jimmy had been too mesmerized by the evenness of her breathing, and the way her chest heaved and fell in rhythm as he gently caressed the frizzy strands of hair that framed her wan face.

Feeling reassured by the way she curled up on her side, facing him with her back to the curtains instead of the other way around, he didn't want to miss a single moment of this, their hard-earned togetherness. She was all he had left. His home was gone, his boat was gone… _Shane_ was gone. He'd lost everything else he had to Wakefield's brutality, to Henry's insanity, but he still had Abby.

And Abby, with all that she had lost—and it was just as much, with her father's murder only the beginning—she still had him. For as long as she needed him, and he hoped that meant forever, Jimmy would be there.

He refused to fall asleep, no matter how much her quieted breathing lulled him, or the dripping of the IV slowed to a steady, calming drop. But, because he was awake, he became an unwilling witness when the nightmares came to her; her exhaustion hadn't been enough—or maybe her trauma too much—to keep them at bay.

Jimmy didn't know what it was that she was seeing behind the shadows of her darkened lids, but there was no denying her distress when her rest ceased to be peaceful. Abby's eyes, still closed though they fluttered lightly, had screwed up some, and her nose wrinkled in a way he would've found adorable if she wasn't suffering. As she began to whimper to herself quietly, he struggled to find a way to make her feel better without disturbing her—but he didn't need to. She found a way on her own.

Sound asleep, she reached out with tentative fingers until she found Jimmy's chest. Laying her hand possessively over him, she seemed to find peace again. For Jimmy, despite the unfortunate fact that her shift meant that the weight of her arm was pressing down against the point of the IV in his arm, it was perfect. That moment was perfect.

It was too bad, he thought ruefully, that it wouldn't last.

Still, his desire to save her from the world was stronger than ever just then. When Abby woke up shortly thereafter, he pretended to have woken up himself from a nonexistent nap. He lied when she asked how he was feeling, and he conveniently neglected to ask her how she slept.

He already knew the answer to that.

It was definitely worth it in the long run to be so tired yet _alive_, especially considering how close he came to dying. And, despite how late it had gotten, the busyness of the Seattle police station seemed to momentarily revive him, making him alert and keeping him on his achy toes. There were cops everywhere, and a couple of shifty characters that looked like they fit his idea of a criminal.

Not, he reminded himself as a young man with a scowl and a nose ring was led by him, that it was so easy to spot a vicious criminal—he'd known Henry Dunn since they were kids and never would have pegged him as a murderer—but he made sure to stay as close to Abby as he could. Just in case.

Officer McClellan was standing just in front of them, having led the way into the station. For the first time since they met the young cop down at the harbor his attention was on something other than the beleaguered pair. Jimmy was relieved—he'd felt nervous under McClellan's watchful and curious gaze ever since he figured out just _why_ the cop was dogging him. He refused to believe that they were being escorted throughout Seattle because they survived the "Harper's Island tragedy". That would have been too easy, and Jimmy was a little leery of anything that was too easy just then.

Now that the police officer was back where he belonged, his daylong mission had been finally fulfilled. Taking his attention off of Jimmy and Abby, he approached another cop, older and with a couple more years under his belt. This one, a dark-haired, squinty-eyed, tubby sort of man, was sitting behind a stack of papers at a desk but he looked up when McClellan rapped his knuckles urgently against the desktop. He muttered something under his breath to the second cop—the second cop turned his head so that he was staring at Jimmy and Abby—and then went back to the entrance.

There was something akin to relief on his face as he nodded at the two of them. Jimmy knew that it couldn't have been fun for him to stand around the Emergency Room all day, and he was almost as glad to see McClellan go. With a small wave and a real smile, he watched as McClellan disappeared down the hall. No doubt going to make that report to his supervisor, Jimmy noted.

Without their shadow hanging around, he wondered how much trouble they would get into if he grabbed Abby by the hand and just left the police station. It was nice to think about, even if he knew that Abby would never follow him out without the police letting them go. Then, when the second cop—his nameplate said his name was R. Bailey—rose from his desk and gestured at them, he realized that he'd wasted his small window of opportunity by just thinking.

Bailey cleared his throat as he resumed McClellan's position in the lead. Then, in a voice much higher and reedier than Jimmy would've expected from such a stout man, he said, "Follow me."

They followed him.

Without another word, Bailey led them down the busy foyer and towards an elevator. He pressed the up arrow and, almost immediately, the steel doors opened. The elevator was surprisingly empty and the three of them quickly filed inside. Jimmy couldn't see what floor Bailey selected but the ride up seemed to last an eternity. He sought out Abby's hand behind him, assuring himself that he could handle anything as long as she was still there.

When the elevator dinged, Jimmy felt as if he had left his stomach on the ground floor. He swallowed and waited for Bailey to step out into the hall, but the desk cop shook his head just as the sound of footsteps alerted them to someone else's presence.

She was a pretty woman, tannish with long light brown hair and an obvious no-nonsense attitude. Her lips were drawn in a thin line, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she stood off to the side. Jimmy noticed her hands first, and then the badge second. Very nearly covering her badge with her hand, it took him a moment to realize that she was one of the FBI agents they were supposed to see.

At least her no-nonsense attitude made sense to him now.

"James Mance?" she asked briskly. He tried his best not to cringe when she called him by his full name. It made him feel like he was a young kid getting scolded by the principal again. "Abigail Mills?"

Jimmy nodded while Abby took a step forward. "Yes," she answered, and he noticed with a frown that she was sounding distant again. She was shutting down again.

"Please come with me."

Bailey kept his thumb on the small silver button that kept the elevator doors open until Jimmy slowly followed Abby out into the hall. When the doors closed with a small _snick_ing sound, he wanting nothing more than to be in that elevator with Bailey. He would rather take his chances with the cops—he had a feeling they would be a lot kinder than the Federal Bureau of Investigations.

The FBI agent barely waited for them to exit out onto the thin grey carpet in the empty hall. It was stuffy and quiet, and her purposeful footsteps echoed around him as she led them down the hallway. Abby started out keeping pace with the woman but fell back when she noticed that he was still limping a bit. Her concern would have been touching if it wasn't for the fact that he was hesitant to finish this trip, or that his muscles were screaming for him to sit down again.

He got his wish when she held open a door at the end of the hall, ushering them in with a highly efficient stare. It was a small office, bare except for a few posters and notices decorating the wall; a desk sat in the center, two seats on one side and a single chair on another.

Jimmy didn't know what to make of that. Did that mean that there would be two agents talking to him, or was it going to be just this one agent talking to him and Abby both?

Maybe he wasn't really a suspect after all…

The woman still had her hand on the door as she waved at them to take a seat. "If you'll just sit down, I'll let Agent Hanson know that you've arrived."

Abby refused to sit down until Jimmy had slunk into his seat, biting back a groan as his legs all but buckled under his weight. He wanted to act the part of the gentleman, hold out her seat and help her into it instead of her taking care of him, but his pride was taking a break for the moment. Between worrying about this interview, and focusing on ignoring the pain, he was all too grateful for her aid.

He would make sure to return the favor soon enough.

The female agent waited until they were both as comfortable as they were going to get before she slipped back out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her. It was the first time that Abby and Jimmy had been left alone—he wasn't counting the Emergency Room since McClellan was always lingering just out of earshot—since the Coast Guard rescued them at the marina. He wondered if he should say anything, and what would be the best way to open the conversation without making the situation anymore awkward than it already was.

And then he had it.

"Abby," he said, his voice lowered without him even meaning to, "I just wanted to tell you that I love you."

Honesty, after all, was the best policy.

Abby blinked, momentarily stunned by his admission and the timing with which he was telling her this. In a way, it was his answer to her scream that morning. With Henry teetering on the brink of insanity, she had found a way to orchestrate Jimmy's escape by slipping him a lock pick for his handcuffs when she kissed him. Confronted with Henry's strange behavior, Abby yelled at him that she loved Jimmy and it was that more than anything that drove Jimmy to tackle Henry off of the cliff.

But, between the fast pace of calling for rescue, the passionate kisses on the boat, and the long day that followed, Jimmy never got the chance to remind her how he felt. In the strangest place he could—the Seattle police station—and at the strangest time—while they were waiting for an FBI agent to interview them—he decided to take the chance to tell her.

It took her a few seconds to recover. There was a slight sheen of moisture glazing over her dark eyes and, as she tried to blink it away, she said, "Jimmy, I—"

Abby was interrupted when the doorknob turned, the door swung in and a very distinguished, tall, dark gentleman strode into the room. She quickly ran the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping away any lingering tears; so quickly, in fact, that Jimmy barely saw her do it before his attention was commanded by the impressive man.

He walked as if he owned the room, but it wasn't arrogance that he exuded—it was confidence. He straightened his hunter green tie, cleared his throat and approached the desk. His FBI badge was pinned to his chest. This was Agent Hanson.

Up close, Jimmy could see that he was just as tired as they were. His eyes were rimmed with red and watery; his lips were turned down in an effortless frown. Still, he had a job to do and, without another moment's hesitation, he began to do it.

"Good evening, Miss Mills… Mr. Mance. I'm so sorry to have dragged you both out so late after the day you had," Hanson greeted them, and, to his credit, he did sound more genuine rather than like he was just going through the motions, "but, please, understand that I have no choice myself. It's very important that we got the chance to talk to you as soon as we were able."

He had a folder tucked under his arm and, as he took the seat opposite of them, he placed it on the top of the desk. He kept it closed, but Jimmy could only imagine what information about the happenings on the island it contained. He wasn't betting it held half of the real story.

Hanson clasped his hands genially over the folder, but he was all professionalism and business as he began:

"Now, after talking to Officer McClellan, Agent Perez informs me that you were both cleared to leave the Medical Center. I'm glad to hear that you're remarkably whole, apart from your burns, some abrasions, exhaustion and a mild concussion," he said, and Jimmy glanced at Abby again out of the corner of his eye. A concussion? Why hadn't she told him about that? And when had she suffered a concussion? He didn't know, but he promised himself that he would find out.

Agent Hanson was still talking and Jimmy gave his head a small shake before returning his attention what was being said. "—and, since I'm sure that you two are as anxious to resolve this terrible tragedy as the Bureau is, I hope to get through this quickly and without as much grief as I can. But I do have a few questions for you both. I trust that won't be a problem."

Jimmy wanted to make sure that the FBI agent thought they were cooperative. Nodding so quickly that it made his headache flare up, he quickly answered, "Of course."

Abby, pale and withdrawn and looking incredibly uncomfortable all of a sudden, just nodded her agreement.

"Good. Then, let's begin."

Hanson opened up the folder and quickly cast an eye over the top sheet. After a few seconds, he continued, "Three days ago the Coast Guard received a distress call from Miss Trish Wellington. John Wakefield was reported to be alive and terrorizing those who remained after Harper's Island was first evacuated. After the initial contact, the Coast Guard then immediately tried to send out help but the weather made it impossible for it to be as quickly as they would've liked. By the time the boat arrived, Shea Allen and her daughter had been rescued, but there was no sign of anyone else living on the island. The FBI was called in and, after our agents searched the island, we were satisfied that the blood and evidence meant that, regrettably, there were no further survivors. And then, just this afternoon, we discover that there's another twist in this already twisted case."

Jimmy nodded his head gingerly. It wasn't hard to understand what the agent was trying to say. "We're the next twist."

"Yes."

Hanson paused there, wondering how next to continue this conversation. Deciding it would be the best to tell the survivors more about what the last few days had revealed over beginning with his questions, he said, "There's been a lot of media coverage on this case, as I'm sure you are aware by now. Once your survival was leaked, the press was all over it. They have been since the Allens were rescued, and it's been no better. Officer McClellan was to keep you safe and shielded from the media while we attempted to collect your statements. Apart from the scene down at the harbor, I'm pleased to announce that he succeeded… but it won't last. The station… my department, especially… has been bombarded with requests to talk to you two. Everyone wants to hear your story."

Everyone, Jimmy thought to himself, including you.

"Of course there's the romantic appeal, since it was a wedding between childhood sweethearts," Hanson explained, not missing a beat. "And the Wellington family, with its wealth, was high profile enough to draw attention to the tragedy. There's the morbidity of the supposedly dead serial killer returning from the grave to finish the job," he added unapologetically. Jimmy had to agree with him, too. It had taken him actually seeing the bastard at work to believe that John Wakefield really wasn't dead all these years. "And then there's the horror of the victims all being picked off one by one on a deserted island like it's something out of a mystery novel."

"And then there were none," murmured Abby, breaking her silence.

He nodded, closing the folder with a muffled slapping noise. "Except, in this case, it was 'and then there were two'… until this morning. Now it's become 'and then there were two more', and I'm here to find out just how."


	4. easy to pretend

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. _

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**Fire and Rain**

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**iv. easy to pretend;**

The silence that followed Hanson's statement was so heavy that Jimmy felt the implications of what the FBI agent knew, what he didn't know and what he wanted to know hang overhead, threatening to crush him and Abby. If possible, the situation made him feel even more uncomfortable. He almost would have preferred to be back at home on the island, taking his chances. Agent Hanson was much more intimidating than Henry Dunn had ever been, and he didn't even have a knife.

With a grim expression and tired eyes, he didn't say another word. He was waiting for one of the other two to speak up.

Jimmy didn't know what to say. His only experience being interviewed by the cops—or, at least, cops that weren't Charlie, playfully interrogating him over a cup of coffee at Pepper's—consisted of being dragged half-asleep from the cab of his truck down to the station and repeatedly asked about a strange series of murders the police couldn't explain and he had nothing to do with. The questions had been incessantly repeated, the same demands about his name, his profession, his reasons for being on the dock… he hadn't had to start any conversations. All he had had to do was sit tight, try not to look guilty, and be honest.

But, from the moment Agent Hanson strode purposely into the small, nearly empty room, Jimmy had the suspicion that this interview wasn't going to be anything like his prior trip down to the Seattle police station. On the one hand, this time he was pretty sure he _did _have more answers about what happened—but Hanson hadn't asked any questions. That was what made Jimmy lean deep into his chair, watching the unblinking eyes of the dark-skinned agent. Hanson wasn't asking questions just yet, but he was waiting for the answers.

He wondered if he should just start from the beginning. Did the agent want to know about everything that happened ever since the wedding party arrived, or should he just start telling him about what happened after Thomas Wellington was killed and the idea began to come out that there might be a murderer on the island again? Or maybe it would be best to start with the strange circumstances of Kelly Seaver's "suicide"? Or…

There were so many ways it _could _begin but one thing was for sure: Jimmy had every intention of being the one to open the conversation. It was bad enough she was going to have to go through this after everything that had already happened to her, to them—his memory, despite his best efforts to forget, kept drifting back to the way Henry's lifeless body lay huddled in the water that very morning—but he didn't want her to have to relive it again herself so soon. At the very least, he could do what he could to tell the FBI agent what had happened.

Well, as much _as_ he could…

Abby, though, she seemed to have other plans.

"What exactly do you want to know?"

Hanson patted the top of the folder with his large spade of a hand. "I have a report right here from Mrs. Allen. She kindly sat down with me and my partner and told us everything that she knew." Swift and quick, he slipped his hand between the folds and flipped it open again. Leafing through the sheets, he found what he was looking for and said, "Let's see… she discussed her father's death, and then those of her husband and her stepmother… Then there was the island evacuation and, of course, her daughter's disappearance and the reason why so many people stayed behind…"

Jimmy only saw the way she reacted because he found it impossible to keep his eyes off of her for long. Even as he stared straight at Hanson's impassive expression, he could catch a glimpse of her striking profile from the corner of his eye. So pale already, Abby looked like she was seeing a ghost. She was blinking slowly, sorrow written all over her face. It wasn't easy for her to hear Hanson's answer to her loaded question.

He knew exactly how she felt. Every casual mention of another one of the tragedies was like another sting, some more salt being rubbed into an open wound. It made him anxious and it made his stomach twist into knots. How could Hanson sit there so calmly, rattling off the names of the victims—people he knew, people Abby knew—without so much an apologetic frown?

How could he remind them that this all occurred and they hadn't been able to stop it?

Squirming in his chair, Jimmy hated the way Hanson's gravely tones as he spoke of Shea's interview made him feel. It was survivor's guilt, and he couldn't help it any more than he could ignore it. Every time he felt that pang, he felt torn—glad to be alive, glad to be with Abby, but absolutely guilty that, of all those people who died, he had survived.

Out of nerves, or maybe out of that guilt, Jimmy's fingers were tapping restlessly against the armrest. He didn't realize it until Abby reached her hand out, placing it on top of his until his fingers were silent again. She slowly took her hand back, letting it fall to rest on her lap, and Jimmy returned his attention to the agent.

Hanson still wasn't done. "Mrs. Allen explained Chris Sullivan's sacrifice, how he helped her and her daughter get off the island before he, too, was killed. When the Coast Guard rescued them off the Eastern Bluff, they were taken to the hospital before meeting with us. As we spoke, she was quite certain the main perpetrator was John Wakefield—"

The blunt mention of the killer's name hung like a dark cloud over the small room, affecting them worse than the earlier silence had. Jimmy frowned, his fingers digging into the armrests of his chair, while Abby flinched.

Hanson, either unaware of the effect of the name, or simply unbothered by it, just continued:

"—but there was definitely some concern about an accomplice."

Maybe he was being self-conscious but Jimmy could've sworn that Hanson's gaze lifted up from the papers in time to look straight at him right as he brought up the idea that Wakefield hadn't been working alone. The agent was right, of course—Henry was the unexpected second murderer—but what did he know? What had Trish's sister told him? Had Shea Allen really thought _he_ was the accomplice?

It was one thing for him to be nervous when McClellan was shadowing him and Abby, knowing what secrets laid buried back on the island. It was another thing entirely for a no-nonsense agent of the FBI to look at him as if he was a viable suspect in such a terrible massacre.

Jimmy couldn't say that he knew Shea Allen very well. She was close to ten years older than he was, and when Trish was inviting their group of friends onto her father's yacht, Shea was already married with a young daughter. Always out of his league, he thought the elder Wellington daughter was cold and aloof; seeing her again so briefly for the first time in years, and under such duress too, hadn't done much to change his teenaged opinion of her.

He had no idea what to expect from her. Especially after such damning evidence as that mug shot… Shea could very easily have told Agent Hanson and Agent Perez that Jimmy was as much a part of it as Wakefield was.

Hanson didn't come right out and accuse him of anything. He left his statement there like a lure, waiting for Abby and Jimmy to make like fish and take a bite.

A lifetime of working the docks and catching every sort of fish the Pacific Northwest had to offer taught Jimmy when to take a nibble at the line or just swim on by. This, he decided, was definitely not the time to get himself caught on the hook.

The way he saw it, if he was being overly cautious in thinking that he was the prime suspect, then it wouldn't be such a good idea to plant any further seeds of suspicion about himself in the mind of the FBI; likewise, if they really did suspect him of being Wakefield's accomplice, he didn't have anything but his word to back him up—and he wasn't really sure how far that would get him in Seattle.

There was another thing Jimmy had, though, one that he seemed to have forgotten all about: he had Abby Mills in his corner. She knew he didn't do it—she knew exactly who the accomplice was—and from the way she called Hanson's attention to her by clearing her throat, Jimmy knew that, like he would do for her, she was going to protect him.

Her tone turned innocent yet full of concern as she asked pointedly, "Where's Shea? And Madison? Are they okay?"

If Hanson was surprised that Abby chose to change the subject, he didn't show it. In fact, he almost appeared to have been anticipating that very question. His answer was at the ready immediately.

"Mrs. Allen was given clearance to return home with her daughter yesterday morning. They landed yesterday afternoon, but Agent Perez made it a point to inform her about your survival before it was revealed elsewhere. She was willing to return but the Bureau thought it might be best for all parties involved if you waited until after the media sensation has died down to meet again."

Abby nodded slowly, digesting Hanson's response. "I guess that makes sense."

Jimmy nodded too, but not because he agreed that Hanson and the FBI were right; his suspicions were raised the instant the man mentioned that it might be best for them. In his limited experience with law enforcement, he knew that anything the Bureau might think was good was really only good for the Bureau.

"Yes, well, Mrs. Allen was a great help with this investigation. Though there is still some doubt regarding an accomplice—"

This time Jimmy was positive that Hanson's dark eyes flickered across the table to meet his.

"—the Bureau was prepared to mark this case closed… until this morning, that is. There was evidence that the two of you perished in the same fire that killed at least four others. Yet, here you are. If you don't mind, I'd like to hear how you both survived."

Jimmy was just about to make a well-meaning comment about whether or not they actually had a choice but, before he had the chance to even open his mouth, Abby jumped in.

"I'll tell you what happened on the island," she promised the agent. "I'll tell you everything."

Reaching into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, Hanson drew out an expensive looking pen. He twisted the lid off, placed the tip against a blank sheet of paper that suddenly appeared on top of his open folder, and glanced back over at Abby. "Whenever you're ready."

She nodded, took a quick breath, and began.

It only took a few minutes of her talking before Jimmy realized that he hadn't give her enough credit. As she started to talk, he marveled at just how strong Abby really was. Her jaw was set, her dark eyes steely with determination. She started off slow and hesitant but, before long, her voice was sure and confident. Like he had thought about doing, she started at the very beginning: the day she received an invitation for her best friend's wedding to the girl of his dreams.

Jimmy had known that Abby was a writer; he found that she was a great storyteller, too. As she explained how hard it was to return to the island after having left it so many years ago—she glossed over Wakefield's first rampage, choosing not to mention her mother's murder as it was certainly part of the information that was already in Hanson's folder—he found himself drawn into her story, mesmerized by her words.

It was almost as if it had happened to someone else.

It was easy to pretend it hadn't happened to _them_…

Hanson was a good and thorough agent, but he wasn't heartless; despite his build, he wasn't made of stone. When Abby began to struggle with her story about twenty minutes in, her voice thickening with emotion as she described watching the head spade come crashing down on Thomas Wellington after she flipped the Church's light switch, he put down his pen and held up his hand.

Abby, taking the hint and taking a break, stopped at once. She swallowed and closed her eyes for just a moment. Then, with a quick shake of her head, she opened her eyes and was just about to continue with her story when Hanson cut her off.

"Mr. Mance—"

"Jimmy," he corrected automatically. He couldn't understand why Hanson was suddenly paying attention to him, but that thought came second to how strange it was to be addressed in such a way by the agent. He was a kid, and a fisherman… but he sure wasn't Mr. Mance. "Mr. Mance was my old man."

"Jimmy," Hanson agreed. "Maybe you'd like to take over?"

Abby shook her head again, this time hurriedly as if flustered by his suggestion; surprisingly, neither man noticed the fleeting look of panic that flashed across her face. "No. Jimmy… he wasn't there for most of it. I'm okay. I can tell you."

Hanson glanced curiously over at Jimmy, looking for confirmation that Abby was telling the truth.

Jimmy nodded, though he felt sheepish as he did so. But Abby was right, after all. He _had_ missed a lot, and, besides, she seemed desperate to tell the story herself. He figured it was like drawing the poison out of a deep wound. Maybe getting the chance to talk about what happened over the last week was good for her, in a way. The FBI needed their story—it just might be that Abby needed to tell it.

He was more than willing to let her do whatever she had to.

So, with a slight smile, he said jokingly, "She's right. I missed most of the good stuff. I don't come into things until much later in the story."

It might not have been the best idea to try to bring humor into the room, but Jimmy couldn't help himself. His exhaustion had caught up with him hours ago, and it hurt him just to listen to Abby tell the story. He wanted to know what happened when he wasn't there—he wanted to understand himself what really went on on Harper's Island—but he had to admit it was much too soon. If he didn't at least try to lighten the mood, Jimmy was afraid he would lose it.

If, of course, he hadn't already. It hadn't gone unnoticed by him that, already more than he should have, Jimmy had thought about people he knew and lost—Charlie Mills and Trish Wellington, for two, and he knew he was still in denial over Shane—as if they were still alive.

He just couldn't believe that they were all dead.

The smile slid off of his face as quickly as it had come. Jimmy had the sinking suspicion that, when his muscles stopped being so sore and his injuries healed, he wouldn't feel comfortable smiling like that for a good, long while.

Hanson was still looking across the desk at them; there was no denying the curiosity that lingered there before he banished it with a curt nod. "Okay then," he said after a moment, picking his pen up again, poising it so that he could resume his note-taking.

He was frowning and Jimmy wasn't sure if he was put off by Abby's insistence to be the one to speak or just annoyed by Jimmy's unappreciated attempts at a lighthearted humor. He decided it had to be the latter—Hanson didn't look like he had much of a sense of humor even when he wasn't overworked, tired and investigating a serial killer's weeklong murder spree.

But then Abby resumed her tale and his frown faded into a look of rapt attention. Drinking in every word she said, the agent tried to make sense of it all.

As if determined to do this right, she regained control of her emotions as she continued. It was almost like she was distancing herself, chronicling the events like a reporter rather than one of the victims herself. She told Hanson about the suspicion that fell on J.D. Dunn, about finding Uncle Marty's body up in the tree and then how J.D. was later murdered. Taking a quick breath, she then proceeded to mention the blast at the marina that almost killed Jimmy, how he was spared and how her father died instead.

There were sad tears, angry tears in her eyes as she spoke but Hanson didn't stop her this time. He had stopped taking notes—Jimmy figured his memory was good enough—as he just listened to Abby recant that particularly terrifying night when John Wakefield first stepped out of the shadows.

Jimmy was paying as close attention to her words, if not more. Without being the one to pressure her, he was getting answers to the questions that plagued him. What happened after the _Sea-Jay_ blew up? Why did he come to in the Cannery? What happened when he was paired off with Trish and Abby left with Henry and Cal to save Chloe?

_Henry…_

As Abby, going more slowly now, began to discuss Cal Vandeusen's murder at Wakefield's hands, followed by Chloe Carter's subsequent suicide, he realized something that he hadn't really noticed in the hour or so that she was speaking but that stuck out at him now. Henry… For all the details she was giving to the FBI agent, she kept glossing over Henry. She gave no sign that he was guilty, no hint that he had done anything wrong. The way she spoke about him when she did, careful and with remorse, made him out to be just another victim.

And that's when Jimmy realized that Abby's careful detailing of their horror wasn't done in order to clear any doubts that might have been attached to his good name.

No, he thought, it wasn't about him at all.

It was never about him.


	5. loyal to a fault

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. _

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**Fire and Rain**

--

**v. loyal to a fault;**

Under Abby's careful construction and weaving as the storyteller, the story began to change shape, unraveling and twisting and becoming something it never was. She was so sure, so quick and so detailed that there could be no doubt that every word she said was anything less than true. Even Jimmy found himself falling under the spell of her muted insistence that this was the way that it all happened.

It was, he realized with a start, the way Abby _wished_ it had happened instead.

The idea that the whole tragedy, that all that terror and all those lives senselessly lost, had been orchestrated for her—to be a mark _against _her—was too much for her to bear. According to Abby's version, John Wakefield wanted her dead as much as he wanted her father dead out of some sick and twisted desire to rid the world of anyone and anything that reminded him of Sarah Mills. It was for that reason that he came to Harper's Island to exact his revenge a second time; the massacre of the Wellington-Dunn wedding party was done to destroy the sheriff, destroy the island and because Wakefield was a sick enough bastard to kill for the sake of killing.

As for Henry, it was easy to see that she accepted the fact that he was a murderer—she was forced to—but it was just as simple to understand that she didn't _want_ it to be true. In her own way, she was in even more denial than Jimmy was and it showed as she altered the story to remove the blame from Henry's troubled shoulders. It stayed where she felt it belonged: with Wakefield.

At first, Jimmy couldn't be entirely sure that that was what she was doing. Having missed so much, from either being separate from the wedding party those first few days to being unconscious for he didn't know how long, she could have been telling the truth for all he did know. But when she got to the part where the two of them—Abby and Jimmy—found Trish and Henry's bungalow open and empty and the story took a turn that he knew wasn't right, he couldn't deny it any longer.

Loyal to a fault, Abby was refusing to tell Agent Hanson that Henry Dunn was the accomplice he was expecting to hear about. The way she told it, there wasn't any accomplice at all. John Wakefield, she repeated, had done it alone.

Hanson, it seemed, found that hard to believe. Jimmy couldn't blame him. The idea that one man could feasibly kill twenty-nine people—at the very least—over one week's time, picking them off one by one, was almost laughable.

But, then again, he didn't know Wakefield…

Still, it was right at that point in her story, just as she told Hanson how they found Henry frantically searching for Trish around the bungalow—a lie—before the three of them—Jimmy, Abby and Henry… another lie—went off to look for her, that Hanson picked up his pen again. With a calculating expression, he rubbed his tired eyes once but did not look any less alert. Then, taking advantage of a quick break in her narration, he chose to jump back into the conversation.

Moving his top sheet filled with a near illegible scrawl over to the side, Hanson underlined something on another page. As he did, he said, "Mrs. Allen took her daughter down to a boathouse after John Wakefield managed to escape again, killing—" He paused, checking another fact on his paper. "—Daniel Brooks in the process. There, I understand, she met with Chris Sullivan and told him about both the escape and the latest murder. Chris then set her and her daughter into a single boat and helped them get off of Harper's Island. After that, she could tell us nothing… she knew nothing… until we had the unfortunate task of informing her that her sister, her sister's fiancé and, well, quite a few others had been killed after she left."

He didn't come out and say it bluntly, but his unsaid meaning was clear. It had been up to Agent Hanson and his partner to tell Shea that, not only had Trish and Henry and poor Sully died, but Abby and Jimmy were dead, too.

Except, now they weren't—and he still hadn't heard anything from Abby that would explain just how they had survived.

Jimmy couldn't help but wonder how the cold, distant Shea had reacted to the later news that they were still alive after all. He felt that same survivor's guilt return twofold. To know that there had been survivors and, for just a moment, to have hope that maybe her baby sister did make it through… it must have been absolutely horrible to be told otherwise. Even more so when that moment passed and her hopes were dashed to discover that Trish really was gone. It must've been like losing her all over again.

It was then, with the guilt creeping in and his lips turning down in an unsettled frown, that Jimmy thought he might finally understand what Abby was doing.

Abby wasn't lying about Henry for Henry's sake. She was lying for the sake of the victims he left behind.

Henry was the second killer, working for whatever reasons alongside Wakefield. That meant that Henry was just as responsible for the murder of his own fiancée. Whether he was the one who stabbed her or not, Henry killed Trish. What good would it do to tell Shea that the lovers hadn't died together, fighting off a homicidal maniac? Why hurt her even more by telling her that Henry had turned on Trish—and them all—at the end?

Jimmy snuck another peek at Abby out of the corner of his eye. She was sitting straight up in the uncomfortable seat, nodding intently as she listened to Hanson speak. There was no sign about what she was doing or how quick she was thinking—no remorse for the lies, even, though he did notice the way her hand was trembling again ever so slightly.

Hanson, keeping it professional, pretended not to notice the shakes, either. He was too used to people being nervous in the presence of an FBI agent, and the girl had been through enough already. So it was with a calmer voice, gentler with a kind inflection, that he requested, "I'd like to go over this part slowly to make sure I get it right."

"Okay," she agreed readily.

"Sure," Jimmy added needlessly. It was the first time he spoke up in what seemed like ages. He couldn't keep quite anymore.

The agent spared him a fleeting glance, the briefest of attention. He took in the way Jimmy was leaning to his left in his chair, his body language showing just how much he yearned to be sitting next to the girl, constantly in contact. Even if Hanson hadn't been briefed on their relationship, he would've known. He wondered if, perhaps, it hadn't been the best idea to question them as a pair.

But there was nothing for it. He couldn't do it over so, clearing his throat, he asked, "First, about Wakefield in the holding cell… You mentioned how you and the others tricked him, then captured him. But how did he get out? How did he escape?"

Like before, Hanson left his question dangling. It was another lure, another opportunity to entice Abby or Jimmy to admit to an accomplice on the island. Just as she refused to tell him the precise and exact truth, Hanson refused to stop digging for a more agreeable answer.

Abby still wasn't biting.

"No one let him out, if that's what you mean," she countered firmly, her lips drawn in a sharp, thin line. "They wouldn't have, not after seeing what he could do. Those cells were old and Wakefield…" She allowed her voice to trail to a close before she let out a sound of absolute disgust. "He was strong. It was horrible, Agent Hanson, but it wasn't so surprising that he got out. Wakefield was unstoppable. Why should even bars keep him away?"

It was the first heat, the first intense emotion other than squashed grief that she had displayed since arriving in Seattle. Hanson made a quick note of it before saying, "And that's when Wakefield killed…"

He glanced down at his notes again to check the name but she provided it first with a quick answer and another frown:

"Danny."

"Brooks, yes. In the sheriff's office."

"Yes."

"And then he went after Trish Wellington and Henry Dunn. He was the one who broke into their bungalow and attacked Mrs. Allen's sister, wasn't he?"

It was Jimmy's turn to answer. From the way Abby folded her hands in her lap so tight that the knuckles made her appear even paler, watching the agent with an unblinking stare, he could tell that just listening to Hanson as he double-checked his facts so callously was really taking its toll on her. He felt his stomach tighten in a desire to help her out. He didn't want to watch her be put under any further strain.

Keeping in line with the certainty that Abby had illustrated throughout her entire discussion, Jimmy jutted his chin out defiantly and lied: "Yes. We told you that already: Wakefield did it all." He was pretty impressed with himself when he did it; his voice didn't crack or even shake. It actually sounded like he believed what he said.

Maybe it was the way he charged in there, trying his best to cover for her and back her up, but she was emboldened by his response. Without giving Hanson the opportunity to keep interrupting with his questions, she started again. With Jimmy listening intently so that he could back her up and swear it was the truth if he had to, and with Hanson taking notes again, his letters blurring at the speed with which he was writing, Abby began to fabricate an entirely different series of events than what actually occurred over the course of the last few days.

She just hoped—as did Jimmy—that the agent believed it, too.

Beginning with the scene just outside of the empty bungalow, she told Hanson how the three of them—Abby, Jimmy and Henry—had ventured off into the nearby woods to look for Trish. They hadn't known what happened to Shea, Madison or Sully, but, when they heard the bells toll at the church again, the trio set off in hope that there friends would be there.

They weren't, Abby confessed stoically. She never saw any of them again. John Wakefield—with Trish Wellington's battered body—was waiting for them when they reached the church. He attacked, she explained, and the sight of his dead fiancée incensed Henry enough that he tried to fight Wakefield. He was injured, she saw it when Wakefield managed a practiced swipe with his knife and Henry fell, but he was able to distract the man long enough to let Abby and Jimmy escape.

Wakefield followed them, but they had a head start. Abby had lived on the island for eighteen years, and Jimmy was a local all his life—but Wakefield knew about the tunnels on the island. There was nowhere for them to go except to the tunnels, praying as they ran that they could evade him long enough to escape and find the Coast Guard.

They ran, she told him, and didn't stop running. The numbness Abby felt over Henry's death—whether in her fictional account or the truth of how he had died by her hand—was evident as she tried to explain what it was like in the tunnels that traversed the underground of Harper's Island. Remembering how a switch had been tripped when she was looking for Beth Barrington, she explained how they felt safer once a gate fell behind them. Even if it made him stall and take another path to find them, the gate would be an obstacle in Wakefield's path.

But Wakefield never came after them.

For two full days, Abby continued, the two of them stayed below in the hopes that they'd escaped Wakefield for good. They were too weak, from lack of food, sleep and peace, and they found themselves resting more than they should have. It was only when they took a turn they had missed earlier in their fright that they reemerged back outside.

She gave details at first before slowly, purposely, becoming more hazy and vague. She said it was because she had fallen some time during their panicked flight and bumped her head; she had the concussion Henry had given her outside the church to stand up as skewed proof. When Hanson, dutifully recording with a cocked eyebrow, couldn't hide his skepticism, Jimmy jumped in again, attempting to make the story sound more believable—before also admitting that, after the explosion, much of his memories were a blur up until the moment they had escaped.

They didn't know what happened, or why they were still alive, but they understood that they _were_ alive… for the moment, at least. And, after everything that had happened to them, the pair was willing to do anything—had done everything—they could to make it off of the island.

Hanson listened, subconsciously following Abby's silent request as he kept silent while she spoke. He could tell that the end of her story was coming when she told him how her and Jimmy had spent a few days underground before coming back to the surface. He waited for her to pause again, swallowing in an effort to keep her throat moist, before asking, "And that's when you contacted the Coast Guard again?"

"Yes. Jimmy helped me out of the tunnels. It had been so long since I was on the island that I didn't know for sure where we were when we got out. But Jimmy knew and, as hard as it was, he led me back to the boathouse Trish discovered. He was limping from his injuries and my head was hurting so bad. It was a slow way going, we were so tired and it was eerie that, for all our walking, we didn't see anyone else. We didn't know that Wakefield was dead—"

"We expected it, though," Jimmy chimed in, "when he never found us."

"That's right," agreed Abby. "We saw the smoke rising up behind us as we ran but we thought… no, we hoped… that the fire he set must have gotten him."

"It did," Hanson said simply. "John Wakefield never made it out of there alive." He set his pen back down, his fingers aching for the amount of detailing he had documented. Something about Abby Mills' story didn't seem right; he wanted to keep a record for him to go over when he wasn't so tired himself. The nagging feeling was one he was sure wouldn't abate and, with another series of testimonies from two more witnesses, he knew there would be much more work on this case ahead of him and Perez.

Still, he had to offer Jimmy a small, appreciative smile. From her tale, there was no doubt who had come out the victor over the villainous Wakefield. "You escaped a murderer and you saved this young woman. You're a hero, Mr. Mance." He caught himself and then amended, "Jimmy."

Jimmy could feel his eyes widening in surprise at Hanson's words; his cuts felt tight and he bit back a wince. But that was nothing compared to the guilt he felt coupled with an urge to set the agent right. He shook his head. "It wasn't me, sir. I did what I could but…"

He paused, and his thoughts flickered back to the events of only this morning. Listening to that crazy son of a bitch taunt him, threatening Abby and forcing him to sign away his life in favor of hers… seeing her for what he expected to be the last time, hearing her tell him she loved him, that _kiss_… the pick she passed to him, the way she stabbed her best friend in his foot, the way she stabbed him through the chest…

Jimmy shook his head again, rougher this time. "No. It wasn't me. Abby's the hero."

Hanson's dark eyes were drawn to the haunting depths of Abby Mill's expression. She averted her gaze as she mumbled under her breath, "I just wanted to see Wakefield die."

The FBI agent wasn't sure exactly what she said, or if it was important. But years of training and a professional desire to gather every ounce of information he could get, Hanson asked, "What was that?"

Abby gave a start. She glanced at Jimmy—he was as curious as Hanson and gave her an encouraging smile. She nodded and gave a small jerk of her shoulders and then a small, lingering shake of her head. "I said that I just wanted us to survive."

Jimmy couldn't help himself anymore. No matter how suspicious it looked, or how inappropriate it might seem to Hanson, he reached out and let his hand fall possessively on her arm. The smile that flashed across her weary and worn face was enough to make the last few hours almost worth it.

Then she reached her arm out from under his hand and, in one fluid gesture, clasped her hand in his before giving it a tight, answering squeeze. And Jimmy knew for sure that it _was._

* * *

Author's Note:_ There's still one more chapter to go (well, part of one, at least) with Hanson before we finally get to see Abby and Jimmy out of that same day. I know it seems a like a little much but, the way I see it, I have to really set up this before I could even have them start to move on. I'm quite excited for the future, though, and the next few chapters seem like they're going to be fun. We'll finally get to see the pair alone ;)_

_Anywho, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I have another story idea that I've been working on (the Henry-centric multi-chapter that I've mentioned in other places... I think) and I would like to have that out in the next few days. As soon as I do, I'll try to get the next chapter of Fire and Rain out. Hopefully, though, it should be worth it :) _


	6. for better or worse

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. _

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**Fire and Rain**

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**vi. for better or worse;**

Agent Hanson didn't know what else to say. Battling a cramped hand and a head buzzing with his most latest interrogation, reveling in the silence that had been lacking, he went slowly as he glanced over his notes for the countless time. He had to do something. He hadn't dismissed the witnesses yet, and it was a little disconcerting to be intruding on such a personal scene.

So what to do next?

The thing was this: it was late and he'd been working overtime ever since the FBI called him in and he first arrived in Seattle to speak with Shea Allen and her young daughter. In the aftermath that immediately followed the breaking of the Harper's Island tragedy, he and his partner had been working nonstop. He thought he might finally get more than four hours of sleep that night—until the call came in that morning that the case wasn't as closed as they first thought.

No, he was looking at the two unlikely survivors who were keeping this case cracked wide open…

He'd been on the job twenty years this January. He was a seasoned professional, known for his cool demeanor, uncomplicated personality and great skill—both behind a desk and in the field. Hanson was good at telling when he was being lied to and, while he could corroborate much of their story, he couldn't help but admit to a nagging in the back of his mind that said that perhaps the Mills girl wasn't being entirely truthful.

At the very least, she was definitely hiding _something_. Considering how much of her story mirrored the one told by Shea Allen—who, he decided, had told it while under the impression that she was one of a few survivors of Harper's Island and could be trusted… to a degree—he was willing to believe that most of what she said was true. Big or small, though, she was hiding something, and he didn't know what it was.

But Hanson also realized that continuing this interrogation would be like fighting a losing battle. In her state—both physically and emotionally exhausted—and with Jimmy Mance hovering over her like a protective bulldog, he was aware that Abby Mills had told him all she would. This interview had gone on long enough. He could keep them in the station overnight, stick McClellan outside of their door if he had to, but he could tell by the set of her chin and the glint in Jimmy's eyes that he could get nothing out of them just then other than a repeat of the same story and a stubborn confirmation that John Wakefield, and John Wakefield alone, was to blame.

And that would have to do—for now. They were the survivors, after all. The_ victims_. Who knew? There was always the chance that they would remember more come morning…

Besides, when he asked Perez to take Madison Allen into the hall so that he could confirm the deaths that the FBI discovered after she had left the island, Shea Allen had looked just as haunted, just as closed off and traumatized as these two kids did. She'd only shown any emotion when he tried to take away the photo of Trish Wellington and Henry Dunn the Bureau had placed in his folder. With an ache written on her carefully composed face, she wouldn't let him have it. She wouldn't let it go, so he let her take it, pitying her in a way that wasn't entirely professional.

Hanson had been an agent for close to twenty years and he had never seen or heard of anything so horrible as what happened on that little island just off the coast of Seattle.

So, clearing his throat, he drew Abby and Jimmy's attention back to him. For better or worse, it was time to let them go.

There was a dark, dangerous look in Jimmy's eyes, and a familiar scowl back in place. It was a warning as well as a silent scolding for Hanson having broken up their moment. Abby, meanwhile, reacted differently; with a flustered glance back at the agent, she quickly reclaimed her hand, reaching for the small charm that hung around her neck. Jimmy left his empty hand to linger on the arm rest.

Together, they waited to hear what Hanson had left to say.

Jimmy just hoped the FBI agent didn't have any more probing questions left in his arsenal. He wasn't sure that he would be able to recall half of Abby's intricately detailed and entirely falsified story if Hanson asked him about it.

Luckily for them both, he didn't. But he did give one last subtle warning.

"That was some story, Miss Mills, and, on behalf of the Bureau, I'd like to offer my condolences for your losses. Both of your losses," he added, turning his dark stare on Jimmy. Too tired to be intimidated anymore, Jimmy couldn't even muster up enough energy to flinch. "We'll take everything you… you and Mrs. Allen, that is… have told us and do our best to try to bring some closure to this terrible tragedy. If there's anything else you'd like to tell me…" Hanson's voice trailed to a close there as he waved one of his large hands needlessly at the pile of notes scattered before him.

He gave them a few moments each to digest his words, to understand the levity of what he was saying and give her the chance to come clean about the one factor he was convinced she was keeping back. But Abby was stubborn and she kept her silence. There was nothing else _she_ had to say.

Jimmy, following her lead, just waited for the FBI agent to finish this interview already.

Hanson nodded then, checking the expensive-looking watch he wore on his wrist. It really was late, and it was obvious that that was all he would be getting out of them tonight. He knew when to give in. Capping his pen, he slipped it inside his jacket pocket before gathering his papers up and closing his folder for the final time that night.

"I thank you for your time," he told them, once again sounding like he meant it, "and I hope that what you've told me tonight will be enough. For now, the Bureau has designated two rooms in a local hotel for you both. I'm sure you need your rest after all you've gone through, and it'll be easier to contact you if you stay in the area. We can arrange for a squad car to bring you over, if you'd like."

"No, no," Abby said hurriedly, "that won't be necessary. We can just take a taxi if it's too far to walk."

Jimmy decided he liked the way she said "we". And the idea of a hotel room—even if he had to spend the night in his alone—was the best thing he heard all day.

"Very well." Agent Hanson stood up impressively, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle in his suit jacket before leaning over the desk, his spade of a hand extended. Without another word, he reached for Abby's hand first and shook it gently, and then Jimmy's.

It was just the sort of grip Jimmy expected from such a man. He refused to show Hanson how sore his fingers were; grinning and bearing it, he waited until his hand had been released from the man's iron hold before letting it fall to his lap. Trying slyly not to be noticed, he rubbed them gingerly until he had feeling in them again.

Abby murmured niceties to Hanson as she slowly climbed to her feet. There was a hesitance in her motions and the way she held her body that Jimmy couldn't quite place. Was she finding it hard to believe that that was it, that Hanson had swallowed her lies? Did she want to stay and maybe confess? Or did she just want to stay here with Hanson so she wasn't with Jimmy any longer?

With a sinking feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach—he could feel the tuna sandwich and the cranberry ice cocktail the gruff nurse at the Emergency Room had forced upon him just sitting there, weighing him down—Jimmy really, really, _really _hoped it wasn't that last one.

And then, when Abby turned to him and, with kindness and a hint of long-suppressed adoration in her dark eyes, offered him her helping hand, he was pretty sure it wasn't.

Thank goodness, he thought. She'd worried him there for a second.

He couldn't be positive about her motives, not after a gap of seven years and not yet, but it was nice to see her look at him like that. They were all each other had left—he didn't know what he would do without her now.

But, still, he couldn't mistake the pity and the remorse that lurked there, too, hidden behind the worry lines and her shaky frown. There was something about the way she leaned towards him, her hand ready to help him to his feet, that made Jimmy feel like damaged goods. He would never tell her so, but that bothered him more than anything else they had experienced since arriving in Seattle.

It took most of his energy just to shake his head, flashing Abby an apologetic smile as he pointedly refused to take her hand. He was determined to get up and out of that chair—and then out of the police station—under the strength of his own two feet. Especially with Hanson still in the room. Jimmy still had _some _pride.

It was just going to take him a little longer than it would have a week ago …

Jimmy was just about to finally get up from his seat, maybe stretch his ever cramping muscles, when, suddenly, there was a brisk knock at the door. Sinking even deeper into the seat instead, he felt his chest deflate like a balloon. The knock didn't sound promising; he could only imagine who could be on the other side of the closed door. And to think that they had been so close to finally getting away from the police, too…

"Excuse me," Hanson said briskly. From the way he quirked his eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder curiously at the closed door, it was easy to see that, who ever was out there, Hanson hadn't been expecting them.

He picked up the folder from the desktop, tucking it underneath his arm. Jimmy glanced at Abby as the agent turned his back on them, heading towards the door. She was chewing absently on her bottom lip, obviously still worried. He jerked his head at Hanson and, almost so slowly it was hard to tell, she nodded. She saw how careful Hanson was not to leave the folder in their reach.

She knew that he was still suspicious of them.

But what did they expect? Maybe he was almost delirious with lack of sleep—it wasn't easy to sleep when bound and gagged, tied to a pole in a dank and dark garage—and utter exhaustion, but Jimmy had managed to nearly forget just how guilty they still looked; Hanson's professional manner and interest in their story had made it _easy_ to forget that they were the last two survivors of a weeklong massacre that left close to thirty people dead. As good a story as Abby had told, it wasn't the truth.

When he was a boy, Jimmy had had a tendency to tell tall tales, fib a little here or there. He never thought it did any harm—until his old man caught him lying about something silly and tanned his hide for being dishonest. It was a lesson he took with him ever since: don't lie, boy. You'll always get caught.

He couldn't imagine what would happen if they got caught lying about this. And for what? To protect Shea and Madison? To protect _Henry_?

Or, Jimmy realized all of a sudden, was it all to protect Abby? Not from the repercussions of her actions—that was the textbook definition of self-defense—but to protect her from the gruesome truth?

There was nothing else he could do. Craning his head to see who was at the door just as Hanson reached for the knob, Jimmy clenched his jaw as tightly as he could without shocks of pain shooting through his face. He would keep his thoughts to himself and he would do what he could to make the world believe the lie.

And he would do it for Abby.

Hanson called out before he'd even swung the door inward. "Yes?" His voice was gruff but it changed immediately when he saw the pretty face of his partner. "Perez. It's you."

"I wasn't sure if you would still be busy with the survivors."

_The survivors_. Jimmy didn't like the sound of that and, if either of the agents had been able to see the face he pulled when Perez referred to him and Abby as such, they would've been surprised that he could manage such a sneer with the cuts and bruises blossoming all over his features.

_The survivors_. Was that how the pair of them would be forever remembered?

He sure as hell hoped not.

"I just finished the interview," Hanson informed Perez. "I was going to call down for the hotel information and let them go. Why? Was there something you needed?"

"I was going through some of the evidence gathered at the scene. A few pieces had been cleared and sent out already but… " Perez stopped there, obviously thinking better about what she was going to say before continuing, "… there are some things left that we can show to the survivors. Maybe they would like to claim them? The Bureau called in the okay once they arrived at the station."

Hanson nodded, then opened the door wider so that Perez was visible. She was the same agent that met them at the elevator and brought them to meet Hanson. She nodded in greeting at Abby, who was still standing, and Jimmy, who felt like standing up was the last thing he wanted to do.

Abby took a step towards her. Forget looking hesitant—as tired as she was and as drained, she managed to muster a fierce, yet confused, expression as she asked, "You have something of mine? Here?"

Perez nodded again. "If you'll follow me…"

This time Abby didn't even reach for Jimmy. Her eyes locked on the back of Agent Perez's head, she started to follow her without even a second glance back at him.

Jimmy, knew better by now than to be slightly offended by her actions; instead, he was mostly curious to see what sort of evidence the FBI had collected when they visited the island, tapped his last reserves of energy and, with barely more than a grimace, got himself on his feet. In an attempt to hide the pain—the last thing he wanted to do was go back to the hospital for more observation—he let out a small chuckle. He brushed his shaggy hair out of his face, nodded at Hanson and quickly hobbled after the two women.

They were faster than he would've given them credit for. By the time he squeezed past Hanson's bulk in the doorway, he was just in time to watch the back of Abby's dark head as she turned the corner at the end of the hall.

He found them down another corridor. Abby had her arms crossed over her chest; it was almost as if she was hugging herself, keeping herself together. The agent, meanwhile, was leaning over to unlock the door in front of her. It was a plain white door with a plain white sheet of paper taped to it. Black letters were dashed across the sheet but Jimmy was too far to make out what they said. By the time he was closer, Perez opened the door and gestured for Abby to step inside.

But she didn't follow Abby in. Keeping the door open with her back up against it, Perez waited for Jimmy to limp stubbornly in after Abby before going in last herself.

The room wasn't any smaller than the one he and Abby had just spent the last few hours in but it sure seemed like it. Boxes were pile up everywhere, in every corner. Some were opened, some closed but all of them were carefully numbered with the same number. The _Harper's Island tragedy _case number, Jimmy figured.

Off to the side, though, in the center of the floor, there were two luggage cases sitting there, marked with tags. One of them, a large black case a little newer looking than the other, had the white label of its tag turned down; Jimmy couldn't make out the name on it. But the second, shabbier and a little older, was clearly marked with two words: _**Abby Mills**_.

Abby reached for it but, before she was too close, she stopped. She let her hand fall at her side, looking over her shoulder at the agent. "That's my luggage?"

"It was gathered during the first sweep. The FBI found most of the luggage… personal effects and such of the members of the wedding party… grouped together in one of the abandoned rooms of that inn. They brought them back to the station to try to figure out some of the identities of the victims and maybe find some sort of clue. Most of the luggage was sent out yesterday, sent to the survivor's families but…"

Abby understood what she was saying. "Not everyone has a family, do they?"

Agent Perez, despite the icy demeanor she displayed when she came to collect them at the elevator, managed to look slightly abashed. "No."

"My dad was the only family I had left," Abby mumbled under her breath.

Jimmy, knowing exactly how she felt—even if he couldn't imagine to what degree she felt the pain, fresh and traumatic as it was—moved closer to her and, before she could react, he slipped his right arm around her shoulder. Abby, grateful for the contact, leaned back into him, dropping her gaze from the suitcase to the floor.

"We'll have it sent down to the hotel," Perez announced brusquely. It was easy to see that something Abby said had struck a nerve with the normally cool agent.

Abby didn't look up just yet as she agreed, "If it'll be no trouble…"

"No trouble at all, I assure you," answered Perez. Unless he was mistaking it, she seemed almost relieved that Abby had accepted her not-so-subtle hint to change the subject. She sounded much more personable now. "The evidence has been cleared but the sign out process can be… pretty lengthy. Unless you need something now…?"

"Oh, no. I'll be fine. I… we," Abby amended, glancing over her shoulder to look at Jimmy, "just want to go to sleep. I went without anything in there for days. I don't need it now."

Agent Perez hesitated before asking, "Did you want to look inside? Nothing was really marked and the evidence boys just assumed it belonged where it was."

A strange expression flashed across Abby's face. Jimmy, who was watching her intently, saw it and felt his heart almost break. He'd hoped she would never have cause to look that way again—but she did. He didn't understand it, but there was no denying the fear she wore. It was as if she was afraid of what could be inside her suitcase.

"No… no, that's fine. I'd rather wait until tomorrow, if it's all the same."

"That'll be fine."

And, with that, Perez opened the door behind them. She stepped aside to let Jimmy and Abby slip back into the hall, gesturing for them to wait while she locked the door again. Then, without another word, she took her place in the lead, bringing them back through the halls.

When she arrived at the elevators, Jimmy half-expected to find that officer Bailey waiting to bring them down. Him, or Agent Hanson, even. But it was Agent Perez who pressed the down button before following Abby and Jimmy into the enclosed space.

"My partner will have all your information waiting for you downstairs," she informed them, nonchalantly checking the slim watch on her wrist.

Stealing a glance in her direction, Jimmy saw that she looked just as tired as he felt. And he wondered just how much work the FBI partners had done on this case—or how much work was left to do.

Nothing else was said while the elevator continued in its descent.

They hit the ground floor with a slight jerk and the steel doors opened widely. Unprepared for the jolt, Jimmy stumbled over the threshold while Abby lingered behind him. But she didn't follow him out. Just as he stepped out into the somewhat calmer lobby of the police station, he heard Abby make a small exclaim of surprise that caught his attention, and that of Agent Perez.

"I just remembered. My wallet… was my wallet in my suitcase?"

Perez shot out one of her fingers, pressing the button on the elevator panel that kept the doors open. "It's a possibility," she told Abby, "but I can't say that I know for sure. Did you want to go back up and check?"

"Could we? I don't want to be a bother but… I'd feel better if I at least had my ID or something like that on me."

A confused, concerned expression found its way to the FBI agent's face. Her eyebrows knit together as her brow furrowed. "Hanson told you that the Bureau would be paying for your stay, didn't he?"

"I know, but still…"

"I understand." Perez nodded. "Here, I'll take you back up."

Jimmy had been watching the short conversation with an interested eye and a cocked ear. When Perez relented to allow Abby back upstairs, he immediately took a step towards the still-open door. It wouldn't stay open for long and, as much as he didn't want to stay in the police station any longer, he wasn't about to let Abby upstairs without him.

It was only when Abby held up her hand—Perez reached for the elevator's "open" a second time—and gave a gentle shake of her head that he stopped dead in his tracks.

"It's okay, Jimmy. I'll go up with the agent. You stay here."

He opened his mouth to argue but, as Agent Hanson had discovered earlier, sometimes there was just no arguing with Abby Mills.

Jimmy nodded. "Whenever you're ready." _I'll be right here waiting_...

"I'll be right back," she promised him as Perez operated the elevator, letting the doors close. "Don't go anywhere."

Desperate to rest his feet now that he didn't have to pretend for Abby, he waited until he heard the ding of the elevator before it headed back up. He hobbled over to a decorative planter rested conveniently a few steps away and, exhaling loud enough to draw the attention of a nearby vandal, sat back down.

_Don't go anywhere_, she said. Well, he didn't have to be told twice.


End file.
